Dalziel 05 A Pinch of Snuff

by Reginald Hill

Riot in the forum! Secretaries scribbling like mad on their tablets so that generations of unborn schoolboys may experience the profit and delight of translating this wisdom, one stumbling word after another.

  Pascoe's face showed nothing of his fantasy.

  'In which particular respect?' he enquired courteously.

  'In every fucking respect,' replied Dalziel cheerfully. 'Because it's daft in the first respect. I know our Bri. The natural thing for him to do when he heard what he heard was to go right round next door and stamp on Charlie a bit. I'd have done the same myself. Anyone who's not a sodding civilized intellectual would. Kick the door till someone comes or it falls in. Then, whumph!'

  Dalziel nodded in agreement with himself, an expression of savage righteousness on his face. It was many years since his wife had left him and he had once confided to Pascoe in his cups that she had broken the news by telegram. A woman blessed with wisdom, thought Pascoe.

  'He sorted Heppelwhite out later,' said Pascoe. 'Perhaps he just wanted to plan out his course of action.'

  'For Christ's sake, he's not the Count of Monte bloody Cristo!' said Dalziel scornfully. 'No, if Bri didn't go right round next door to remould Charlie's face, there was a reason. We'd best find Sandra. Happen she can help.'

  The doctor appeared in the doorway.

  'Nasty,' he said laconically. 'She's really been thumped. Husband caught her on the job, did he? I've got the name of her GP so I'll make sure he knows what's happened. What brings you two out here, anyway? A bit high-powered for wife-beating, aren't you?'

  'Same as you, doc,' said Dalziel. 'Makes a change from brain surgery, doesn't it? Thanks a lot. We'll have a drink some time.'

  Pascoe looked at his watch as the doctor left.

  'Dinner-time,' he said. 'You know, sir, the doctor's right in a way. Basically this is just a domestic job.'

  Dalziel shook his head.

  'Not till choirs of angels tell me Shorter's in the clear, it's not. There's a girl missing too. We'd best find her. And don't forget that Charlie Heppelwhite's lying in hospital. And where's Burkill? No, there's a bit of mileage in this yet.'

  'I'm sure, sir. But I've got to go and talk to friend Toms this afternoon. And I'm still keen to have a long chat with Mr Maurice Arany. You have any joy with Blengdale before we were interrupted, sir?'

  'I hadn't really got going,' said Dalziel. 'I think he was more worried than he cared to let on, but his missus turned up at the same time as me, so I couldn't really turn the screw.'

  'Which reminds me,' said Pascoe slowly. 'Mrs Blengdale . . .'

  'Not a bad-looking woman,' said Dalziel. 'Mind you, it'd be a bit like screwing a statue of the Queen.'

  'Perhaps not,' said Pascoe. 'I was beside her when we saw Heppelwhite fall on to that saw.'

  'Aye, I noticed you doing a bit of nifty supportive work,' said Dalziel lasciviously.

  'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'But it didn't feel like supporting a sensitive lady knocked over by shock. No, if anything, I'd say the sight of Charlie Heppelwhite's fingers on the bench turned Mrs Blengdale on rather than switched her off.'

  Dalziel rolled his eyes heavenwards in what was doubtless intended as an expression of bewildered piety but came out more like a lecherous peek up God's skirts. Before he could speak, a constable came in.

  'Excuse me, sir,' he said. 'Message for Mr Pascoe from Sergeant Wield. Would you meet him at Maurice Arany's flat as soon as possible, please.'

  Pascoe looked at Dalziel who nodded.

  'Off you go,' he said. 'Yon ugly bugger doesn't send out summonses without cause. He's just the partner for you.'

  'You mean because of my beauty,' simpered Pascoe.

  'I mean because he believes in facts,' said Dalziel. 'Now bugger off. But keep me informed!'

  Chapter 23

  There were no sounds of life in Arany's flat and as Pascoe pressed the bell button, he wondered if Wield had moved on. He turned the door handle on the off-chance that it was unlocked, and was dragged into the room as the door was flung open with great force.

  'Oh,' said Wield, his face close to Pascoe's. 'It's you, sir.'

  'What were you about to do if it wasn't?' wondered Pascoe.

  'Depends,' said Wield grimly.

  'You'd better tell me about your morning, Sergeant,' said Pascoe.

  'I went to Arany's agency,' said Wield. 'Told the girl I was really a female impersonator just pretending to be a policeman. Won her confidence. She said Arany hadn't been in the office that morning. But he'd telephoned her shortly after she'd got in and asked her to make a purchase and deliver it to his flat.'

  Now came the narrative pause, inviting the question.

  'Get on with it,' said Pascoe.

  'Girl's clothes.Sweater, jeans, sandals.'

  'So,' said Pascoe. 'What then?'

  'I came round here. There was no reply. So I went back to the station to report in. You weren't back, of course. Gradually news began to get back about what happened at Blengdale's. Soon as I heard Burkill's name, I began to wonder. Then I heard from Control what was going on at Burkill's house and I got round here fast.'

  'Finding the door open, of course,' said Pascoe ironically.

  'No,' said Wield evenly. 'I broke in. No one's going to complain. The place was empty, but I found this.'

  He led Pascoe out of the living-room into a bedroom. On top of the ruffled counterpane was a blue nylon nightie, decorated with pink panthers.

  'It's Sandra's. Got a name-tab in it. For school trips and things, I suppose. Her mother must be a careful woman.'

  'Not careful enough,' said Pascoe.

  'That's not all, sir,' said Wield. 'I had a poke around. Through here.'

  He went back into the living-room and stopped in front of the dark oak bureau which with a bit of restoration work wouldn't have been out of place amidst the expensive antiques of Priory Farm.

  'There was one drawer locked. I had to fiddle a bit,' said Wield. He pulled the drawer open.

  'Take a look,' he said.

  Pascoe removed the plain buff envelope which was all the drawer contained and took a look.

  'Oh,' he said.

  They were half-plate photographs of a naked girl and two naked men. They formed a sequence. The girl was Sandra Burkill.

  'Film stills, I shouldn't wonder,' said Wield.

  'Let's go look for Uncle Maurice,' said Pascoe.

  'We'd best take a stretcher,' said Wield. 'In case Bri Burkill's found him first.'

  Pascoe left Wield in the flat till he could send someone else to keep an eye on it in case either Arany or Sandra returned.

  As he returned to the station, he worked out a scenario in his mind.

  Sandra changing from a gawky nine-year-old to a fleshy fully developed woman in the space of three years; Uncle Maurice watching, waiting - no! that implied an element of premeditation too monstrous to be considered even in this melange of monstrosities. But a moment had arrived when something happened; a first step. Arany would have taken it, though perhaps even the girl. . . adolescent pash; surprise, then delight, at the power of her newly formed body; Arany full of guilt (why is it, wondered Pascoe, that despite what I see in my job, I cannot imagine a world in which a man wouldn't feel guilty at seducing a child?); but guilt that was just the initiate fear. Behind the lecher stood the pornographer. There was a market for schoolgirl films. As for Sandra, did she need to be coaxed? tricked? bribed?

  I don't know, thought Pascoe, adding aloud as he entered his office, 'And I don't want to know.'

  He'd checked Dalziel's office. The fat man hadn't returned. He sat down wearily.

  Dalziel had been right, thought Pascoe. Burkill had indeed discovered something that had taken his mind temporarily off his wife's infidelity. Perhaps he'd beaten Sandra too. Perhaps, tired of all this hysterical indignation from adults whose example and actions had helped her to where she was, Sandra had blurted out the whole business just to shut him up.

  Then what? Sandra grabbing a coat to
pull on over her nightie dashes off into the night. Where does she go? Where else but to Arany?

  And Burkill's destination is equally obvious. He makes for the one place he is sure of himself, the place where he is king. The Westgate Social Club.

  There he thinks and drinks. Drinks till he stops thinking. Sleeps. Wakes. Goes in search of Arany who has by now got clothes for Sandra and taken off.

  So, his prime target having evaded him, he now makes for his secondary - poor old Charlie Heppelwhite.

  And having settled him, where now?

  Arany again, thought Pascoe. It wouldn't be a bad idea to let Burkill catch up with him either. In fact, unless he came up with some clever notion of Arany's possible movement, it could well be that Burkill got there first.

  'Fool!' said Pascoe, reaching for his telephone. There was an obvious place for Arany to make for. He wasn't in this alone and self-interest would suggest warning his confederates. It was probably too late already, but no harm in checking.

  'Detective-Inspector Crabtree,' he said. 'Ray? Hello, Peter Pascoe again. Look, there've been developments.'

  Briefly he sketched out what had happened.

  'Now there's a possibility that Arany will turn up at Homeric. Eventually, if I'm right and they did film the girl, we're going to really turn them upside down and shake them till their change jingles, but meanwhile can you do a check, see if there's any sign of him about the place? Be discreet, but if he's got there before you, or if there's any sign of people packing up, take a grip and let no one move till we rustle up a warrant.'

  'Got you,' said Crabtree. 'I'll get right on it.'

  'Hold on,' said Pascoe. 'You'll need Arany's description. And you'd better have Burkill's too in case he's somehow got himself over there.'

  Quickly he described the two men.

  'Fine,' said Crabtree. 'Hey, is the Thin Man in on this?'

  'Who?'

  'Grosseteste.The talking balloon. Dalziel.'

  'He will be when he gets in. Don't worry, young fellow. Daddy won't be angry with you.'

  'Ha ha,' said Crabtree. 'I'll get back to you. 'Bye.'

  It was only five minutes till Dalziel appeared. Pascoe told him about the discoveries in Arany's flat and laid out his scenario for inspection, humbly acknowledging his superior's acumen in guessing that Burkill must have had a very strong reason for not dealing with Heppelwhite immediately. To his surprise, this humility did not produce the anticipated revolting smugness.

  'That's how it looks to you,' Dalziel said slowly. It was difficult to work out if this were a question or not.

  'That's how it looks,' said Pascoe.

  'It's your case,' said Dalziel. 'You've got a call out on Arany?'

  'Oh yes. And I've been on to Harrogate to get them to check Homeric in case he makes for there.'

  'Have you now? Your mate, Crabtree, I suppose.'

  'That's right,' said Pascoe.

  Dalziel scratched the folds of his chin. It was like the finger of God running along the Grand Canyon.

  The pictures were spread out on the desk before them.

  'It's certainly our Sandra,' said Dalziel. 'Do the men look familiar?'

  Pascoe shook his head without even looking at the photographs.

  'Can't see much of their faces anyway,' said Dalziel. 'Film stills, you say? Why not just a sequence of snapshots?'

  'Why not?' echoed Pascoe. He felt very tired and despondent. Perhaps even Galahad had on occasion felt like saying sod the Grail and going off home for a tatie-pot supper and an early night.

  'Well, look at the things, will you?' demanded Dalziel. 'God, if you'd got hold of these when you were fifteen you'd not have let them out of your sight for a fortnight!'

  Pascoe looked. Looked away. Looked back.

  'What?' said Dalziel.

  'That fireplace. Here, you just see a corner of it. But I'm sure . . .'

  'What?'

  'It's at Hay Hall. That's where Homeric do their filming. I'm sure it's the same one. Damn! That's where they'll all be! Probably no one in the Harrogate office. I'll get on to Crabtree and tell him.'

  He reached for the phone.

  'No,' said Dalziel. 'I've a sudden fancy to see these people for myself. Do they have a phone out there?'

  'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'No power supply, certainly.'

  'Then if Arany wanted to see Toms, he'd have to go in person? Good. Peter, get Sergeant Wield back from Arany's flat. No one's going to turn up there. Send Inspector Trumper in to see me. I've got a few phone calls to make, so give me five minutes, will you? Then..’

  He looked speculatively at Pascoe who felt that the fat man was debating whether to tell him something.

  'Then?' he prompted.

  'Then,' said Dalziel. 'Then it's heigh-ho! for Hay Hall!'

  Chapter 24

  As they turned into the green tunnel which was the drive of Hay Hall, Dalziel asked, 'How far's the house?'

  'Quarter of a mile. Less,' said Pascoe.

  'Good. We'll walk. Do us good. Just stop here. Here I said!'

  'I was trying to pull off the driveway,' explained Pascoe. 'Otherwise it'll be blocked.'

  'Never mind that. Sergeant, you stay with the car. Commune with nature and any other bugger who comes this way. Come on, Peter. You youngsters are all the same. You've forgotten what your feet are for!'

  Pascoe looked at the fat behind he was following and remembered wistfully one thing a foot was for.

  'What's that noise?' asked Dalziel.

  Pascoe listened. It was a throbbing, mechanical sound.

  'The generator truck,' he guessed. 'They have to provide their own power source.

  ‘Doesn’t the noise get on the sound track?' asked Dalziel.

  'I suppose they park it at the far side of the house, use directional mikes, that sort of thing.'

  'Aye. Any road I suppose it'll be like the music at the Ball of Kirriemuir.'

  'What?'

  'You couldn't hear it for the swishing of the pricks. Sorry, I keep forgetting you're a soccer man. "Ee-ay-adeeo we're going to win the cup". No fucking art.'

  The Hall came into sight. Half a dozen cars ranging from an antique Mini to a shiny Jaguar were parked in front of the main entrance. The generator truck was tucked away round the side as Pascoe had surmised.

  'Straight in?' said Pascoe.

  Dalziel considered.

  'You go straight in,' he said. 'I'll have a stroll around. I'm enjoying the air. They know you, they'll likely make you very welcome.'

  'I'm sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'I'm not quite clear about our strategy.'

  'Strategy? We're thief-takers, not generals, lad. If it moves, arrest it; if it stands still, suspect it. What's your main concern in this business?'

  'I suppose,' said Pascoe slowly, 'to protect the girl, make sure it can never happen again.'

  'Never? You're a knight in shining armour right enough, Peter. Get yourself in there and clank around a bit. I'll be with you soon.'

  The fat man moved into the trees.

  'And good night, Chingachgook,' murmured Pascoe as he resumed his approach to the house.

  The front door was slightly ajar. Cautiously he pushed it. Suddenly the slow movement accelerated as the door was pulled open from within and Pascoe was dragged forward off balance. He had time to think 'second time today!' as a pair of strong hands gripped his lapels and a knee came up between his legs. Instinctively he twisted sideways to avoid the blow but he was too unready. His testicles would have been badly crushed if the knee hadn't decelerated as though the assailant had had second thoughts. Even so, contact was still made and Pascoe cried out in pain as his attacker released his jacket and stepped back.

  'Peter!' he said. 'For God's sake. I didn't realize . . . are you all right?'

  It was Ray Crabtree.

  'Great, great,' gasped Pascoe. 'I think there's one of them not quite flat and we can always adopt.'

  'Come and sit down,' said Crabtree, full of concern
. 'There must be something to drink in this place. Penny, where do you keep the booze?'

  Penelope Latimer had appeared in the hallway. She was wearing a tight-fitting silver lame trouser suit. Nothing could hope to reduce her bulk, but this gear accentuated it to a point where, strangely, it almost disappeared. The material shot out wires of light like the sky at night, and like the sky at night it made the gazer aware of his own insignificance rather than the vastness of what he regarded.

  'What's happened?' she asked.

  'A bit of an accident,’ said Crabtree.

  'I'm OK, really,' said Pascoe manfully, not caring to nurse his crutch in front of a woman. 'It just came as a surprise. Ray, what the hell are you doing here?'

  Crabtree's eyes flickered warningly towards Penny.

  'Is there any chance of a drink, love?' he asked. 'Or a cup of strong sweet tea?'

  'Sure,' said the woman. 'I'll go fix it.'

  She left them, hesitating in the doorway and glancing back before she finally disappeared.

  'Can't be too careful,' said Crabtree, 'though I dare say they've guessed something's up now you've arrived. What happened was, after you rang I remembered that all the Homeric lot would be out here, not in town. So out I came. I played it low-key at the Calli and asked if they'd seen Arany.'

  'They admitted to knowing who you were talking about?' interrupted Pascoe.

  Crabtree laughed.

  'I didn't give them a chance to deny it. Anyway, no one's laid eyes on him, they claim. So I had a stroll around inside just to check, then I thought I'd glance over the grounds just in case that lad - whatsisname? - Burkill, should be lurking, though it didn't seem likely. I was crossing the hall when I saw the door begin to open, all slow and furtive, and I thought to myself, Ray lad, you're wrong. Here comes Burkill, looking for Arany or anyone else he can get his hands on. And so . . .'

  'So you decided to damage him for life,' said Pascoe.

  'No! But you did say he was a tough customer, Peter, and likely to be a bit demented. I just didn't want to take any chances. I've said I'm sorry. You needn't think I'm going to kiss it better!'

  'You've been here too long,' said Pascoe. 'Where's that drink?'